A Not-Quite-Broken Heart
by Lawless67
Summary: Wee!chesters. During a brief respite from the hunting life, Dean discovers a normal that is hard to let go. Hurt!Dean, Sweet!Sam.


_A/N: I couldn't resist this, because I love weechesters and also because I wanted to avoid my homework. As ever, to my regret, I own nothing. Enjoy, and please, please review! I love reading what you think!_

In the spring of 1990, when Dean had just turned eleven and Sam had yet to reach the coveted age of seven, one of John's many hunts went bad. He'd taken a fall down an old well haunted by the spirit of a little girl who'd drowned there in the 1950's, and was admitted to the local hospital with several broken ribs and a fractured tibia. Luckily, they'd been relatively near Jim Murphy's parish in Kentucky, and the pastor had insisted that the small family move in with him for the duration of John's recovery and the boys' school year. John had been bull-headedly against the proposition, biting and ungrateful and proud as only John Winchester could be, but the pastor's patience and unflinching determination had won out. So, for the months of February through May the Winchesters made their home in Mannford, Kentucky.

Now for Sam, this temporary stability meant friends in the first grade and a heavenly lack of cereal at every meal and the reliable presence of cartoons on TV every Saturday morning. For John, it meant damnable bed rest and cutting back on his drinking and being strong-armed into a pew come Sunday by a steely-eyed, well meaning pastor. But for Dean this respite from premature adulthood and constant worry meant one thing.

Baseball.

He'd never played before, except in backyard games, and surprised everyone—including himself—by excelling at the sport. By his second week at Mannford Elementary, it was discovered that Dean had one of the prettiest curveballs his coach had ever seen, was an exceptional first baseman and decent at every other position, and seemed to send every ball he hit soaring over the fence. At eleven, he was playing better than all of the fifth grade, and most of the sixth and seventh, too. By the end of his first month on the team, he'd earned the nickname Cannon, in reference to the speed of his fastball.

Sam, accompanied by Pastor Jim, sat in the front row at every one of his games, and most of the practices. Even John had troubled himself to hobble down to the field on his crutches several times. Dean's days were filled with school and baseball, balanced meals and learning how to care for Jim's horses. His evenings were spent on the wide front porch, fireflies flicking lazily in the waning light, and every night he was tucked into the same bed as the night before, with the door cracked open to let in the hall light, and Sam's knees and forehead pressed into his back. The tail end of the season saw Dean as the main candidate for MVP and a likely pick for the select summer league team. For those three months Dean was on top of the world.

Then came the championship game. Jim and Sam were in their usual seats, and John, now out of his cast and only a little stiff, leaned against the fence beside them. As Dean walked up to bat in the eighth inning, he'd looked over, caught Sammy's exuberant wave and John's half-grin. The look straightened Dean's shoulders, lifted his chin and made him burn with pride for the name and number emblazoned on his back. With a shit-eating grin on the face underneath his helmet and the promise of hell in his eyes, Dean hit a neat single. As the next hitter took the plate, Dean edged off first base, and watched the pitcher glance at him and sweat. With the next pitch, he bolted for second, while the baseman shouted for the catcher to throw him out.

Dean can remember separate sensations from the next few seconds clearly.

He caught the flash of white from the ball in his peripherals and flew into a slide, feet-first. His eyes met the second baseman's as the kid realized they were going to collide, and scrambled away from both Dean and the ball. The red dust of the diamond billowed around him in a cloud, obscuring the crowd from view.

And, finally, the opposing player out of the way, Dean's sneaker-clad foot made contact with second with a sickening crack.

He knew immediately, even before the pain, that he'd done something terribly wrong. He was supposed to strike the base with both feet, firmly, but not with the force he had. With the haze of red dust still covering him, all he could see was the once pristine, grass and dirt-stained white of his pants and the impossible angle his ankle rested at.

Then the pain hit him.

He only remembers flashes from the rest—the wide eyes of his teammates before the call for help, coughing and struggling to get up despite protests because _Sammy is watching, _the restraining hands of his coach and then his father. Being plucked off the ground with extreme gentleness, hanging listlessly in his father's arms as John strode across the field. The feel of Sam's little hands in his hair and on his forehead and the Impala's vinyl seat cool under his cheek. The sound of Pastor Jim's soothing voice drifting over the front seat. The sight of his father's white knuckles clenched around the steering wheel.

The hospital was too big and bright and white. He was too small, cradled in his father's arms like the child he hadn't been for years. He drifted with his head on John's shoulder, the smell of leather and gun oil grounding him, along with the warmth of Sam's hand still looped through his.

He made no effort to answer the doctors' questions, because obviously his ankle was broken, but no one seemed to see that his heart was as well. He only lay silently on the bed, silent tears tracing tracks through the dirt on his face because the season was over. His season was over.

They sedated him then, throwing around words like _unresponsive _and _shock _and _catatonic _above his head. He wanted to yell at them all to go away, that he knew what those words meant, and he was fine, but the edges of his vision grew fuzzy and he simply turned his face into the pillow to sleep.

When he woke, the doctors were gone and he was in his own private room. The wall was still bright white, but covered in Winnie the Pooh and all his furry friends. Dean could hear the low voices of John and Pastor Jim just beyond the door. He felt heavy, and couldn't seem to do anything but sweep his eyes lethargically around the room.

Sam was seated in the green chair next to the bed. His hair was mussed and tangled, his face smudged with dirt, and there was a hole in the knee of his jeans that hadn't been there that morning. He watched avidly as he swung his feet back and forth, hitting the edge of the bed with his toes on every upswing. When he noticed Dean watching him, he dimpled and ceased swinging.

"You're not dead," Sam observed matter-of-factly.

"Neither are you, runt," Dean croaked.

"No." Sam considered. "I'm glad."

Dean didn't know if he was glad or not. It seemed cruel to be able to live if he couldn't play baseball anymore. He knew he wouldn't play again, not like this season, because John was better now and they never stayed long enough for the darkness to catch them. He knew even this peace, this sanctuary with Jim, was temporary but some small part of him had stilled hoped. There had still been that tiny, insignificant part of him that had hoped every night before he went to sleep, that dreamed Mannford's slightly shabby baseball diamond into Fenway Park.

His ankle was numb now, but his heart still hurt.

Sam, seeming to sense this, stood on the hard green chair and gently transferred himself onto Dean's bed, careful not to step on his damaged brother. When Dean still said nothing, Sam settled himself on Dean's left, propped higher than Dean against the pillows, shoulder and hip wedged against Dean's.

Words seemed to be out of Dean's grasp for the moment, so Sam remained silent, and only reached over to quietly take his brother's hand in his own.

The tears began again without Dean's permission, streaking down his cheeks as he trembled and tried not to make a sound. Sam's grip tightened.

Dean turned his face into Sam's shoulder, taking what comfort he could in the baby shampoo and clean sweat and dirt smell of his little brother.

The cotton of Sam's too-big t-shirt was soft against his forehead, despite the bony shoulder underneath. Sam huffed a breath over his head, stirring his hair, and wiggled down until they somehow ended up facing each other, Dean's face buried in Sam's neck, arms clutching each other, legs—minus Dean's bad one—tangled together.

Nothing about this was okay, but Dean found himself edging towards sleep anyway, the sound and smell and feel of his baby brother all around him, and Dean's last thought before sleep claimed him was that maybe his heart wasn't broken after all. Maybe it was only dented.

After all, there were other dreams.


End file.
